


Play With Fire

by Honeythief



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Canon Era, First Time, Literature, M/M, Power Play, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-04 04:11:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16339562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Honeythief/pseuds/Honeythief
Summary: Ciel and Sebastian's discussions of literature tend to get heated.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book Ciel reads here is "The Plum in the Golden Vase", a Chinese classic from the late Ming dynasty. All you really need to know about it for the sake of this fic is that it's full of sex, lewd language, and that the main male character, Ximen Qing, bangs pretty much everything that moves ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
> 
> That said, enjoy!

The townhouse library was dimly lit, its curtains tightly drawn. It was the kind of evening best spent wrapped up in blankets or huddled by fireside, safely away from deluge and cold. Rain drummed and pattered on tall window panes in the never-ending symphony of London, a sound soothing to some and vexing to others. Amid soft shadows on the chaise longue lay the Phantomhive Earl, holding in his lap a volume much too thick and much too worn by time. His sharp blue eye skimmed restlessly over lines of text and his brows were creased in a deepening frown. On a small end table to his left sat a plate of lemon biscuits he'd been served with afternoon tea, and on the floor next to it lay discarded a pair of high-heeled loafers from patent leather he'd slipped off his feet. Thus he was found by his butler; sprawled on the lounge like a cat, reaching blindly for the last cookie as he flipped another page.

“Young master, it is well past your bath time. You need to turn in early, for tomorrow—”

“—I have a meeting with the delightful Mr. Evans, how could I forget,” Ciel grumbled without lifting his gaze. “Just let me finish the chapter.”

Sebastian said nothing, merely craned his neck to glimpse the cover of whatever lecture has recently kept his master so absorbed. His garnet eyes widened in surprise.

“The Plum in the Golden Vase? A rare choice, to be sure... although I'm afraid it is not a choice entirely appropriate at your age, my lord.”

“Whatever do you mean by that? The book is a classic of Chinese literature and a milestone of narrative form,” Ciel listlessly retorted, whisking away biscuit crumbs off his fine-cut, emerald jacket.

“I mean, of course, the numerous and explicit descriptions of sexual activities throughout the novel. And, oh my,” Sebastian eyed the amount of pages under Ciel's thumb, “you seem to be quite far in.”

“Don't treat me like an ignorant child, Sebastian. These are but words, and I am well aware of the various mechanics of intercourse. Still, it is an often misconception with this novel; the descriptions serve not to celebrate the pleasures of flesh, but to expose the dangers of immoderation and condemn those who succumb to hedonism in abundance.”

Sebastian's eyebrows shot high up. His master's voice was calm and practical, as though he had any real idea of the _pleasures_ or _hedonism_ he read and spoke so freely of. Even he, already tried so by life at the age of thirteen, to some degree remained a child. Had he any notion at all how even the mightiest lost against lust, how it was – for good reason – one of the seven deadly sins? What could _he_ know of it, the innocent little lordling oblivious even of his own charms? Who noticed not the hungry eyes darting over his crossed, slender legs in the parlour, who unaware of lustful stares licked off sweets from dessert spoons and dared then curl his plush lips into a tantalising smile? How could he claim to hold knowledge over something he had yet to experience in the flesh, on his own skin? Did he think himself above it – sifting unaffected through pages soaked with eroticism like he sifted through pages of history books? If he did, Sebastian had a wild, dark urge to prove him wrong; through words, or means otherwise more blunt.

Still, he answered with a polite smile, hiding well his demonic urges under the pristine guise of a butler: “Highly astute observations, young master.”

“Quite. Its innovative quality is not lost on me, nor should anyone else be blinded to its political and philosophical values on the account of pornographic imagery, however crude.”

Amused, Sebastian put a hand to his chin. “Allow me to guess – Lau dared you to read it?”

Ciel sighed and admitted resignedly: “Lau dared me to read it.”

But of course; his young master was not one to back down from a challenge of any sorts, ever. Sebastian let him finish his chapter, strolling along the columns of tall bookcases, trailing his long finger over rows of leather spines, pleased not to detect even the slightest smattering of dust. Poetry, journals, novels, philosophical treatises... a gallery of human achievements, a vast archive of theories and ideas spilled across parchment. So many names, living forever on with their legacy of words. Sebastian chuckled faintly to himself; everyone was bound to end up on shelves, anyway, neatly lined up and classified in the endless halls of reaper library. Everyone's story would eventually be told the way it was always meant to be, through the cinematic record of their very soul.

Well... almost everyone's.

“X-Ximen Qing! That dirty bastard—”

Sebastian whipped his head back to where sat the earl. What vulgar passage has finally managed to summon a blush upon those porcelain cheeks? Which of the lewd acts merited that delicious little yelp of outrage?

“To go so far as... with a man, even! Worse yet, a servant!”

Sebastian blinked. Out of all the obscenities he has valiantly trudged his way through, was this the last straw? Interesting. The demon drew closer, dress shoes clicking against polished parquet. “Are your sensibilities offended by the idea of sexual relations between males, my lord?” he asked with a devious smile playing about his lips.

“What kind of servant to the Queen would condone sodomy?” Ciel asked back, calmer as he shut the book, tone inviting debate.

“Ever the perfect English gentleman, are you not? Ancient cultures tended to be much more liberal in these matters.”

The earl scoffed. “Do you refer to the practises of pederasty among ancient Greeks? I suppose 'liberal' is one way to put it. But then even Plato, in both _Laws_ and _Republic_ , ultimately describes the act as unnatural.”

“True. After all, humans love limiting themselves with such abstruse concepts of right and wrong, to form them into written doctrines and hand out labels. With each new age emerge new principles, new definitions of virtue, new laws and religions; I have witnessed that first-hand. In this manner alone, mortals are far more complex than demons.”

Ciel's interest piqued. “Do elaborate.”

“We are covetous creatures, my lord, and what we covet is not dictated by any decree. Strange to us are the boundaries of morality, social standing, gender, age. We do not question why we want something, whether it is appropriate for a demon to want; if we can, we take. Be it soul, be it body, be it both...” Sebastian trailed off, looking at his master in the most unambiguous of manners. From his words spanned an obvious path of deduction that Ciel seemed anxious to follow, even as the question formed to hang unspoken in his mind. It showed, for he shifted uneasily on the chaise longue under Sebastian's intensive gaze and his throat bobbed visibly as he swallowed. He did not take the bait.

“Hmph. A demon and a condemned human discussing morality... rather absurd, don't you find? I'll take that bath, now,” Ciel cut short their conversation and moved to dangle his feet off the lounge's edge, wordlessly ordering the butler to put on his shoes.

_Trying to escape dangerous waters? Not letting you off the hook that easily, my little master._

“Ah, but you haven't finished the chapter, my lord. Are you stuck? Perhaps you need assistance?”

Ciel bristled when the butler snatched from his lap the heavy tome of Chinese literature and watched, transfixed, as he set about flipping rapidly through its yellowed pages. It was pride, above all, that made him swallow his protests and sit there listening to that smooth, honeyed voice read to him what he, himself, could not:

> “When Ximen Qing observed that after a few drinks the colours red and white formed a pleasing contrast on his face and the fragrant redness of his lips revealed a mouthful of white teeth, how could he have been anything but captivated? Thereupon, his lecherous desires were suddenly aroused. Taking him onto his lap, the two of them fell to kissing and sucking each other’s tongues. The young man had a cinnamon flavoured, breath-sweetening lozenge in his mouth, and his whole person exuded a pungent fragrance. Ximen Qing hiked up his clothes with one hand, took down his flowered drawers, and began to fondle his buttocks...” (1)

At that moment, Ciel unconsciously screwed his eyes all the way shut, bracing himself for whatever bawdy, shamelessly-uttered words may yet leave the demon's sly lips. But in their stead, he heard only the dull thump of a closing cover as the book was put away.

“T-That's all?” the boy mumbled.

“Oh? Is that disappointment I hear in your voice?” One more step echoed throughout the quiet library as the demon closed his distance from the chaise longue. “Were you hoping for it to continue in a more explicit fashion? Graphic and detailed, much like the rest? My, what would the Queen think!”

“Watch your mouth, butler!” Ciel hissed and scrambled from the edge until there was no more room for him to back away.

“You must forgive me, young master,” Sebastian bent over the lounge, unfazed, lowering his voice to a near-whisper: “I am merely puzzled by your flustered behaviour. Did you not claim to be well educated in carnal affairs? What has suddenly rendered you so bashful, I simply wonder?” He reached out to caress his master behind the ear – like he would a cat, thumbing at his earring to then slowly trace a finger along the line of his jaw. Such a light touch, barely there, and he shivered under it already. Not even skin on skin, yet enough for a hot blush to bloom prettily across his cheeks. How could Sebastian be anything but captivated?

“Red forms such a pleasing contrast on your milky skin, young master,” he teased, and it was then that Ciel brought himself to slap his hand away. At once the butler fell meekly to one knee, but his smile was not the meek, apologetic smile of a scolded servant; it was a smile entirely insolent and devoid of remorse.

“Now... can we both agree you've had quite enough of The Plum in The Golden Vase, my lord? It is far too early. I shall scold master Lau on your behalf for attempting to corrupt your juvenile thoughts.”

Ciel's face remained red, albeit no longer from embarrassment. Sebastian tried not to smirk too much as he felt the boy seethe with anger at his mockery. Often he took to guessing his master's thoughts, sentiments and schemes – at times he guessed right, other times he proved wrong. Now, he guessed that the young earl was frantically calculating his alternatives and possible outcomes of every move. The demon was calling his bluff, and would he back down and admit he was merely a child erring in the world of adults, uninitiated in the grown-up games of seduction? Would he admit defeat?

It went without saying. His young master was not one to back down from a challenge – of any sorts, ever – and wasn't this precisely what made him so entertaining? It would be a lie to say this wasn't what he'd been hoping for, and Sebastian did not lie. Eagerly he awaited to see just how far the boy would go to prove his point, to what lengths and measures would he stoop in order to gain the upper hand. When he seized his slim foot to adorn it with the shoe he'd earlier flung off, Ciel sent it sprawling back across the parquet as soon as it touched his toes.

“My thoughts are plenty corrupted already. Do you know whose fault that is?” he quietly asked, sliding back to the edge of the seat. His calves pressed flush to Sebastian's shoulders, fabric against fabric. True that he was naïve in claiming to understand lust, but to sin in itself he was not new; of sin he made close acquaintance when three years ago he sold his precious soul for revenge. Sins he has committed ever since, the wicked nobleman who stopped at nothing to achieve his aims or take every victory for his own, no matter how petty. He'd been defiled, orphaned, robbed of childhood innocence – and whatever there was left of it, he seemed ready to let go of entirely as he leaned inches above Sebastian's face and looked down at him in a way that young boys should not look at adult men, in a way a lord should not look at his butler, in a way humans would be wise not to look at demons. He dared hurl himself blindly into something he had no capacity to comprehend, dared step recklessly into uncharted territory to challenge a demon who has reigned in it for unfathomably long years. When he called himself a condemned creature, he really wasn't wrong.

Tentative yet unhesitant, Ciel weaved a hand into Sebastian's ebony locks and watched them spill between his delicate fingers – curiously somewhat, as though he were trying to determine what arose the “lecherous desires” he'd read so much about. His gorgeously blue eye remained unwavering as he held the demon's gaze, and he held it long just to prove that he could. It was with new-found fascination he then stroked over his cheek, like a blind man feeling for the first time the shapes and ridges of his lover's face. The band of his ancestral signet felt cool as he pressed his thumb intimately to Sebastian's lips, exhaled a soft breath and began to quote:

> “Do not become enamoured of glossy black hair and beautiful complexions;  
>  cease to hanker after crimson powder and halcyon-feathered ornaments;  
>  what ravages a man's body and shortens his life are those bewitching figures;  
>  beauties capable of toppling kingdoms and cities are more alluring still.” (2)

As the words dissolved into silence and into the ambient patter of rain, Sebastian found himself enraptured still by their lingering melody, drawn still to the sapphire eye that would not look away for even a moment. Ciel cradled his face in both hands and drew that one bit closer; fingers bearing a faint scent of lemons, rosy lips just barely ajar as he murmured against his own:

“Have you toppled kingdoms, Sebastian?”

The demon lay a feathery kiss on the inside of his master's wrist, then his knuckles, then his chin.

“Only cities.”

“For now?”

Their breaths mingled.

“It can wait.”

To that, Ciel smiled – and this time, it was a smile fully and deliberately tantalising. Sebastian moved to steal a kiss, but the boy moved impishly back; smile still teasing, cheeks warm. He tried again, and just when he thought he'd be forbidden even the smallest taste, his master's lips parted invitingly and their tongues entwined. Thin arms wrapped around his neck as Ciel slid from the lounge into his arms, sighing into the kiss; such a tempting little sound that boiled the demon's blood and stirred ultimately the urges that he always prided himself in being able to control.

And oh, how badly Sebastian wanted to lose control! He wanted to tear those maddening ribbons he tied every day and rip open the buttons he had to fasten slowly one by one; he wanted to crumple the rich fabric he'd carefully ironed and pry away the silky eye-patch to unravel the seared symbol of his demonic claim; he wanted to mark the soft, unblemished skin he nurtured with fragrant oils and pull hard at the midnight blue locks he treated with the most luxurious shampoo; he wanted to spread the lean legs he dressed in stockings all the way apart and snap the garters with his teeth. He wanted to watch his wide, wonderfully vivid eyes fill with tears and hear that cold, composed voice break completely down; trembling, moaning and calling his name as he tainted the remains of his purity, as he delved and tore into his fragile body like he would into his soul. He wanted it all as he licked into Ciel's mouth with hunger and abandon, sliding and snaking his hands underneath woollen shorts to paw at the creamy skin of his thighs. But as they kissed, and he touched, sudden chiming of the library clock thundered through the quiet and with it, as if by signal, the warm press of his master's sweet lips was gone.

_If we can; we take. If we cannot; we wait._

“It appears to be midnight already, Sebastian,” said Ciel, his small hand covering the demon's mouth in denial. “How can you call yourself the butler of Phantomhive family if you neglect duties and let your young master read lewd books before sleep? Bathe me already.”

And could his answer be anything other than “yes, my lord”? He picked him up and carried upstairs, leaving his shoes and his book behind. That evening and that moment, Sebastian could not care less about toppling kingdoms, nor cities. What he cared about was to make that tiny human being in his arms utterly and irrevocably his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Both quotes I've taken from the book's Princeton edition, translated by David Tod Roy:  
> (1) Volume One: The Gathering, page 139  
> (2) Volume Two: The Rivals, page 466
> 
> To be fair, the full English translation of "The Plum" didn't come out until the 20th century, so unless Ciel was fluent in traditional Chinese it would've been impossible for him to read it in the Victorian Era. But, since it's only fanfiction and Kuro is fiction too and not 100% accurate with historical events, anyway, I decided to just roll with it ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Thank you for reading, feedback would be wonderful and very much welcome~


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same pattern, different book – this time Ciel reads Edgar Allan Poe. The referenced/quoted works are "The Cask of Amontillado" and "Silence: A Fable". For anyone unfamiliar with Poe, I wholeheartedly recommend giving his stuff a try, he's awesome (and it's all online).

There was something about the guestroom that Ciel liked. Much smaller than his study, smaller than his bedchambers, almost as small as servant quarters. Cosy, he found it, with its chocolate drapings and dusky lighting. Recluse and unused, lost in the vast corridors of Phantomhive manor, but not forgotten. Fire was lit and the duvet was clean and fresh flowers were in the vase only because the Phantomhive butler knew there was something the earl liked about this room.

“I have brought the wine you requested, my lord. A bottle of Amontillado Pedro Domecq from Jerez de la Frontiera, 1877.”

Ciel lifted his gaze from the complete collection of Edgar Allan Poe's works. He'd sprawled himself on the guestroom sofa in a rather nonchalant manner, unconsciously so whilst engrossed in lecture, with his knee-high boots lying sloppily unlaced on the soft, beige carpet beneath. As he adjusted the hem of his attire and moved to assume a position more befitting nobility, Ciel caught the demon's ruby eyes drifting over his legs for a barely noticeable instance. It happened often, as of late, and his hands too lingered longer than usual when dressing him up; or maybe he's always done it that way, maybe Ciel had simply never noticed.

“I assume you found Poe's famous tale of revenge to your liking?” asked the butler, swiftly uncorking the bottle.

“I found it educational,” Ciel shrugged.

“Oh? Do you intend to wall up your enemies in mansion cellars?”

“No,” he huffed. “I have my own ideas, but I shall keep it a surprise.”

_"Nemo me impune lacessit?"_

Ciel nodded, watching the flow of Amontillado. “But a wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser.”

“Fitting.”

The earl took hold of his drink, twirled it lightly around and sniffed before taking a first, slow sip. For awhile he held the liquid in his mouth, letting its rich, strong flavour spread evenly across his tongue and palate. Having swallowed, he lifted the glass in front of his face and studied it thoughtfully.

“I dislike the colour. Is this what Fortunato let himself be led to his death for? The wine of murder should be of a deep, sanguine hue. Like your eyes, I should think.”

“The amber colour of Amontillado is owed to its ageing process, oxidation and—”

“I do not plan to open a distillery, Sebastian. If you're intent on boring me in this manner, you may as well go about your business. I have enough to keep myself entertained,” Ciel gestured vaguely at the book, and the glass.

“What kind of butler would I be if I left my young master alone with a full bottle of sherry?” Sebastian cocked his head. “Whoever would pour it?”

The corner of Ciel's lips twirled upward in a half-smile. “Come here, then. Sit.”

“Sit, young master?” the butler echoed with a mocking lilt of scandal.

“Yes, sit. Sit down. Beside me. On this very sofa.”

And as soon as Sebastian sat down – the closest he could without coming off as inappropriate – Ciel handed him the collection of Poe's works. “Read to me. I like how words glide off your tongue. _Silence_ , but not the poem; the fable told by a demon. Fitting, no?”

“Bedtime stories, young master? Shall I take you upon my lap, as well?”

Ciel smirked. “Maybe after my third glass of Amontillado.”

The butler clicked his tongue. “Two is the most I can allow, my lord. You have engagements tomorrow.”

“Not until ten.”

“Two _small_ glasses. It's called fortified wine for a reason.”

“I will drink as much as I want,” Ciel insisted, and downed the rest of his wine just to spite him.

Sebastian's brows pressed together in feigned concern. “But there is only so much your small body can take in... you need to get used to it slowly, not shove everything down your throat in one breath.”

And there, a blush — he succeeded. Ciel had no delusions it slipped by unnoticed, even as the butler reached to obediently refill his empty glass.

“Do not haggle with your master, read,” he urged, and as the demon began to read the tale of a demon, he folded his legs to the side and made their distance inappropriate. Such was their game, after all; of flirtation subtle in public and bolder in private, of fleeting touches, suggestive looks and teasing promises of more. They were biding their time – a terribly long, trying game it was – and slowly throughout it, Ciel began to harbour the insupportable suspicion that he was losing.

“...the region of which I speak is a dreary region in Libya, by the borders of the river Zaire; and there is no quiet there, nor silence...”

Ciel took off the butler's gloves. He leisurely mapped the outline of his contract seal and thumbed along the tips of ink-black nails. One by one he felt over each finger, long and slender like the fingers of a pianist. His hands were large, much larger than Ciel's own, and although large, they were neither coarse nor grubby. They were elegant like the rest of him, without a single callus or scar. Ciel traced idle circles inside his palm and wondered if there was anything those hands could not do.

“...it was night, and the rain fell; and, falling, it was rain, but, having fallen, it was blood...”

Those hands raised a manor from charred ruins and pieced back together a shattered ring. They cooked, cleaned, gardened, played violin... and most of all, they killed – ruthlessly, efficiently – always hidden beneath a pair of impeccably white gloves. Such skillful, deadly hands.

“...and the man sat upon the rock, and leaned his head upon his hand, and looked out upon the desolation...”

Something about the demon's pale skin intrigued him. He's never seen more beyond what he could see now, and in imagining more he felt heat rising to his cheeks. Difficult it proved to picture him stripped of his uniform, without the tailcoat and the tie and the shirt that he's all come to consider an inherent part of his figure. A figure that was, by default, in every sense so immaculate. _Too_ immaculate, that bastard; perhaps as immaculate as he'd taught him to be as the Phantomhive butler, but then alone with him in the recluse guestroom he so liked, Ciel didn't want immaculate.

“...then I grew angry and cursed, with the curse of silence, the river, and the lilies, and the wind, and the forest, and the heaven, and the thunder, and the sighs of the water-lilies...”

What would it take to unnerve him? To see in his eyes that devilish gleam? To bring back that hunger with which he kissed him the other night in London? In their game he has now tried all he could think of and all has failed to crack open his inscrutable mask. Stroking mindlessly over the demon's hand Ciel weighed his next move, and was startled when the steady intonation of his voice suddenly took form of an enquiry.

“Have you understood Poe's message in this story, young master? Or were my hands and your glass of Amontillado that much more absorbing?” asked Sebastian with tease behind his eyes, pouring the third drink he'd said the boy was not allowed to have.

Ciel did not register Poe's message, nor did he register the moment he emptied his second glass of sherry. He'd listened to the pleasing melody of the words, but not their meaning. To Sebastian's entrancing voice, perhaps, but not what it conveyed. His loss of focus was another loss, and he had no other to fault for it but himself. Contemplating his freshly poured wine, he tried for an evasion: “Poe had a problem with alcohol, no? 'The instrument of destruction', he called it.”

Sebastian arched an eyebrow. “From what I remember, he took a rarely honest approach to his addiction. It had never been for him a pursuit of pleasure, but instead, per his words, a 'desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness, and a dread of some strange impending doom'.”

Ciel hummed pensively, suspended over the words. Another sip, and he felt a certain light-headed sensation slowly creep its way to shroud his mind. A pleasant, intoxicating buzz that did nothing to help resist the pull of Sebastian's devilish charm, that only had him gravitating closer to its core. They were shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh.

“It's human weakness, my lord. You, however, do not try in any way to escape doom; you daringly face it. I rather like that.”

Ciel laughed, swirling his wine as if in toast. “And that doom you shall gladly unto me deliver.”

Garnet eyes pinned him down with a keen stare. “It can wait.”

“Ah... that's right. I almost forgot how patient you were.”

 _Too_ patient, that bastard. Infuriating.

“It so happens I have all the time in the world to spare, my lord.”

Ciel clenched one little fist, driving manicured nails into the palm of his unoccupied hand. The game was not going according to plan. Sebastian was not supposed to patiently wait, he was supposed to desire and pine and _pursue_. Weren't demons covetous creatures, weren't they greedy? Ciel was supposed to tempt and trick his demon into taking what he'd shown to crave, to splinter his control into tiny, unsalvageable pieces; then and only then could he consider himself the winner.

Emboldened by liquor, the little earl decided that he, for one, could wait no longer. He put away his drink, climbed atop Sebastian's lap and set to work on the buttons of his waistcoat – trying to get to the mystery that was his skin, seeking to tousle his exasperatingly perfect self. He popped open the waistcoat and busied himself with the tie, brows furrowed in exaggerated focus. The guestroom was quiet as he fought to undo it, merely the background crackling of hearth and erratic gusts of wind rattling against the windows. It was _too_ quiet, in fact. No more jests about bedtime stories? No mocking comments about his unfinished glass of Amontillado? No pitying remarks about the clumsy way he handled the knot of his tie? Not even one, little chuckle?

No, nothing. Not a scratch on the immaculate surface. Sebastian just sat there and let his master undress him; poised like a priest, stone-faced like the immovable soldiers of Queen's Guard. Ciel gritted his teeth and attacked the last buttons of his butler's white shirt, brusquely spreading the fabric with both hands. He bit his bottom lip, wet from wine, and stared at the exposed expanse of ivory skin, at the muscles gracefully toned and sculpted like a rare masterpiece of art. He found himself wanting to touch, to press shy kisses against it, to slide his hands wherever he could reach – preferably all over.

Driven by impulse, light drone of intoxication and the not-so-unfamiliar stir in his abdomen, Ciel leaned forward to heatedly capture the demon's lips. He inhaled his scent – nondescript yet enticing – and splayed his hands boldly all across that marble-smooth chest. But even with dishevelled clothing and a lapful of his eager master, Sebastian remained flawlessly composed; he kissed back with polite reserve, and the hand he passively placed on the small of Ciel's back was in no way insistent. Gone was the urgent craving that possessed him in the library weeks ago, gone were the rough, wanton touches and lustful kisses. Ciel would not have it – he stubbornly increased his efforts, shifting on the sofa – and when he did, his leg slipped between Sebastian's thighs and felt there the unmistakable, hard press of an erection. A shiver ran through him – at first one of triumph, then of anxiety. For one moment, Ciel could not tell if he was ready to do what he's been lately thinking so much of doing, what Sebastian made sure he never stopped thinking of throughout their game. But then he remembered that whatever games they played he could at any moment put an end to with a single command, that even though he played those games with a demon, the demon was collared and tamed to his will.

Then maybe, just _maybe_ , he was also a little tipsy.

Ciel rubbed his knee against Sebastian's crotch and pulled back so as not to miss any reaction on his calm, handsome face. The look he shot him was carefully calculated, too; a mix of sultry and bashful that he'd discovered the demon to particularly enjoy.

“You can... so take, already.”

And he was pleased with himself, with the move he made; if he couldn't compel the demon into losing control over his urges, he could at least make sure the demon knew that his master's benevolence was the only reason he could appease whatever urges he may have. Let his place be known, let it be clear on whose terms he was allowed to take – be it soul, be it body, be it both. To that move, Ciel expected a smirk, a “yes, my lord”, perhaps more of that accursed indifference. What he did _not_ expect was for Sebastian's eyes to blaze a ravenous crimson, for his mouth to stretch wide in a wickedly pleased grin, and certainly not for his voice to drop all the way down into a sinful rumble that raised every hair on his nape:

“Don't mind if I do.”

And with a loud, rapid swish off came the ribbon tied at his collar. With a snap of a broken string fell to the floor his eye-patch, uncovering the marked iris beneath. With a pop gave in the buttons of his shirt and with a rustle dropped off his shoulders the expensive, custom-tailored coat. It all happened so fast that Ciel's mind, sharp even when dulled with sherry, could not begin to keep up. Lips previously cold locked his own in a kiss suddenly hot and demanding, hands previously static glided over his body in lust now uninhibited; except the hands weren't gloved, and his own skin was bare, too, and so was Sebastian's where he'd stubbornly dug his way through layers of fabric, and he could feel it as he was pressed tightly to him chest to chest, so much skin on skin it overwhelmed him. His little heart kept pounding crazily between them, irregular like the breaths he struggled to catch, wild like the thoughts racing through his head. Sucking at his tongue, Sebastian chuckled – and because of that chuckle, it finally hit him. Through the thick mist of desire it dawned upon him that it was _he_ who got tempted and tricked, that the charade of stoicism was meant purely to provoke him into finally giving his permission. That hellish bastard played him, forced his hand! After having danced their way around it for weeks, in the end he gave himself up so easily! Ciel flushed all the way to his neck and not without effort tore himself apart from those hot, hot lips.

“Perverted devil— don't you dare get smug, you won this time and this time o-only! Nevermore.”

Another of Sebastian's chuckles came just next to his ear, so low and throaty it was difficult to tell whether he'd meant for it to be sinister, seductive, or both. “I would call this a tie, young master. Isn't this what you wanted? To work me up?”

“Not quite like— _ah_ , i-it seems Amontillado always leads to demise,” Ciel shivered when Sebastian licked his pierced earlobe. “H-how fitting.”

“Demise? Hardly. I am, after all, going to make you feel so very good, my lord...” Sebastian purred out, pressing a kiss to his master's quivering throat. “So good that next time you will beg for it, not just allow.”

And how could Ciel argue when he felt like begging _already_ , when those deft hands and that sly tongue seemed to fluently seek out all the sensitive spots on his body, everywhere at once? He did not know how to keep up or what to do with his hands, so he weaved them shakily into Sebastian's hair. Was he to just melt under the touch, let the demon do as he pleased? Or maybe he should fight until the end, wasn't that more like him? Sherry swayed his mind still, and had he perhaps finished that third glass, he would've submitted without a second thought. Perhaps numbed with liquor he wouldn't have cried out the way he had when Sebastian unbuttoned his shorts and slipped one hand inside, or at least wouldn't have cared. Did he still have to play the game? His breathing grew heavy and he lost track of his thoughts. What was the game even supposed to be about? Why start it in the first place? He struggled to recollect, whimpering quietly as Sebastian travelled down his chest to lick and suck at his nipples.

It must have been his pride, it usually was. He remembered Sebastian taunting him in the townhouse library, making him look like the child he so hated for others to see him as. Because in so many ways, he really was not; because children, in general, did not have to run companies or become earls. Children were gullible and oblivious to all the ugliness of the world, filled with hope and joyful will to live – full of everything Ciel Phantomhive had already lost. Shouldering a bleak past, the Watchdog's grave responsibilities and a soul-bound oath of vengeance – all spiralling inevitably toward a very grim, predestined end – Ciel Phantomhive was as far from a child as he could possibly become at thirteen.

And yet he was no adult, either. He felt so confused by the unnamed need enveloping him whole, so overcome by all these new sensations rippling through his body with every stroke of the demon's hand. Curled up against his firm chest, he felt so small; gripped by his strong hands, he felt so fragile. There was nothing mature about the way he clung onto the collar of his crumpled shirt, or the way he spent too sudden and far too fast into his clenched fist. It brought him little relief and served only to whet his appetite for something he could not begin to define; he wanted more, but more of what? Like an inexperienced child, he relied on guidance.

Sebastian clasped his bottom, brought their hips together and moved the hand inside his shorts all the way back. Ciel cursed, loudly, too nasty for his pretty mouth, something he'd read in one of his lectures and might not have entirely understood. He wriggled and tried to move away, managing only to grind himself further against the large, straining hardness in Sebastian's pants. He groaned.

“Is something the matter, my lord? Surely you're familiar with this mechanic?” the question came with a steamy breath against his neck and the fingers – slippery, _long_ – curled in a way that ignited his entire body. “The Plum in the Golden Vase describes it with the term 'rear courtyard', I believe...”

“S-shut up, you demented fiend from the ninth circle of hell!”

“Ninth circle?” Sebastian considered, driving his fingers deeper. “Hmm. You see, Dante Alighieri has slightly missed the mark concerning the structure of inferno—”

“Now's _not_ the time to be discussing literature!” Ciel bemoaned, and it really was the worst time of all, for his eloquence seemed to be eluding him in a terrifyingly rapid pace. In his current state, Ciel was not sure if he could discuss the weather, much less literature. The demon grinned.

“Of course, young master. It can wait.”

And just this once, Ciel was inclined to agree. Sebastian swooped him up in his arms and carried to the bed, dropping face down onto the freshly laundered sheets, soft and smelling of lilac. Kindling fire warmed his skin, yet he shivered as if cold, and though inside him coiled the feverish heat of arousal, from head to toe he was covered in gooseflesh. The mattress dipped under Sebastian's weight as he pinned him to it, leaning just above his ear to mutter in a voice shiver-inducing and husky:

“Must I be terribly gentle, my lord?”

Ciel urged his mushy brain to muster one last thought. Why ask _him_? Sebastian was the one who knew what to do and how to do it, not himself; their game has proven it blatantly enough. Turning to peer over his shoulder and beholding the bottomless, dark desire reflected in the demon's eyes, he immediately understood; that he was not asking for advice, but once more for permission. He swallowed and steadied his shaky voice:

“In novels, gentlemen know always to be just that; gentle, on a maiden's first night especially.”

“I'm no gentleman,” said Sebastian, “you're no maiden. And it's no novel.”

Ciel moistened his lips. Whatever he has gotten himself into, he did not want to get out of.

“Exactly.”

The demon's gaze burned like hot coal. At once his lips resumed their journey along Ciel's skin, from his nape and over his shoulders and down his arched spine. In his wake he left bites and spread marks, but on the brand burned forever in his master's flesh he lay a kiss feathery and oddly tender, as if the wound had not yet healed and he wanted to soothe the pain. His long, raven locks spilled and swept over Ciel's back, and although the young noble knew well the caress of lavish fabric against his skin, not even the finest Shanghai silk has ever felt as exquisite or as soft. This smallest bit of gentleness was also the last, for moments later Sebastian tugged off his shorts and greedily spread apart his round cheeks, black fingernails digging into the soft, supple flesh. Blood rushed to Ciel's face as the demon lecherously licked over his lips, feasting his eyes upon the sight of him laid bare and flustered on the sheets. Next came the hurried rustle of fabric, the moist smear of oil and then, finally, the slow press of hard flesh amidst impatient breathing and strangled, pitched cries muffled only somewhat by the lilac-scented pillow.

“Sebastian...” Ciel sobbed as he was taken, then again as he discovered how easily the name rolled off his tongue, then over and over once he saw how much the demon seemed to enjoy hearing his master call out for him brokenly in-between moans of pained pleasure. “Too big...” he managed to wheeze, but it wasn't pain that he found hard to take; it was the unfamiliar tingling of pleasure and the way it built inevitably up, stronger every time the demon pulled out to push back in. Ciel dared once more to look over his shoulder, trying to glimpse through his blurry vision what novels have described in ways both poetic and crass, what he has seen portrayed both as mindless coitus and passionate union alike. He knew many words for it – to couple, have intercourse, to lay with and make love to. If he were to choose the most accurate term to describe what Sebastian was doing to him, he would choose the most vulgar, the simplest of all. The demon fucked him, drove himself hard as he could afford into his lithe, virginal body, and Ciel never would have imagined how good it could feel to be so ordinarily and artlessly fucked, had his demon not thrown him on the guestroom bed and provided a demonstration. His perfect hands were everywhere, again, driving him crazy, again, and Sebastian really did not tell lies or make empty promises, did he? He gripped and twisted his thin arm, pulled at his hair and made it messy, licked and sucked and then bit into his delicate neck. He wrapped a hand around it – but not squeezed, not just yet – feeling where beat his crazed pulse, or perhaps testing how easily it would break. He grasped his jaw, ravaged his mouth with lusty kisses and caught his bottom lip between sharp teeth. If Ciel could still think clearly, he would think it fortunate for their game to be consummated in a recluse guestroom at the far end of the corridor, because it was not being consummated quietly at all. But Ciel has long since have stopped thinking not only clearly, but completely, and in his case, it was as if he's stopped existing. Who was he without his shrewdness of mind? Without his cold logic and sharp tongue? All his strength lay within, and now that his mind was addled beyond use with pleasure, what strength did he have left? Robbed of coherency, he was no one – not Earl Phantomhive, not the infamous Watchdog of the Queen – just some red-cheeked, thirteen-year-old kid pressed into the sheets with legs shoved wide apart, knees too weak to uphold him and hips in the air only because the demon was holding them up as he thrust into him from behind. And oddly enough, Ciel could not be bothered to give a single damn. What spectacular loss, for him to embrace it! If only every time it felt this sweet. However it may be called – debauchery, sodomy, adultery – and however it may be regarded for an English nobleman to engage in – shameless, disgraceful or drop-dead scandalous, it was worth every single sin. It was worth losing his dignity, losing the game, losing control and the scant shreds of innocence that life has allowed him to keep and that he now relinquished of his own accord. Sebastian seemed to feast on this vulnerability, on the weakness that his master was so loath to ever exhibit, and now that it was his ( _only_ his) for the taking, he dug gladly in; he'd been, after all, allowed to.

If Ciel could still wonder, he'd wonder how Sebastian would react if he ordered him to stop – this instant, altogether. He liked to test the demon's obedience, take advantage of his power and remind him who was the master and who the servant. He liked to think that he owned him, but the truth was, he had no freedom and he had no control; he was but a lamb that chose the terms of its slaughter. He could play his games and devise his schemes and pretend all he wanted, but awaiting him at the grim end was still the fate he sealed for himself when he cursed God and sold his soul. No matter what he did, he was still doomed to stew in the bowels of this unholy creature whose hunger for every aspect of his being did not seem possible to sate. The demon's claws were hooked so very deep in his flesh and the vines of his dark claim were wrapped around him so tight that he could never, ever hope to escape. And if he could somehow escape being consumed, devoured and torn asunder, he wouldn't. Because his end, though grim, shall be fitting. And for now, at least, it could wait.

For now, the demon could settle on devouring him in a different way. The nails sinking into his thighs seemed sharper than Ciel remembered, the snaps of his hips were just nearing too rough and the groans he heard by his ear now verged on inhuman. Then, the entire guestroom engulfed abruptly in darkness – the fire and the candles all went out as if siphoned away into some invisible vortex, or extinguished by a violent gust of nonexistent wind. But instead of feeling alarmed, Ciel only drew closer to the peak of his pleasure, overrun by a strange new rush of possessiveness he would've preferred to remain undiscovered. It was _him_ that Sebastian lost control for, _him_ that he so ardently coveted, even despite the countless times he's had others spread out beneath him in the same way. Ciel hated that he couldn't see him so inflamed, not when crushed against the pillow and in the dark, just like he couldn't cling onto his strong shoulders or bury his hands in that sleek hair. He could feel him everywhere, all but in his very bones, and yet it was still far from enough, he still felt too distant. Ciel reached blindly behind, fingers outstretched and seeking, groping about until Sebastian's hand squeezed securely around his own. He yanked, and was at once enveloped with the warmth he so desperately yearned for. The demon's arms draped all around him and Ciel shivered enclosed in his tight hold, inescapable now as it would be forever. He stayed with his lips pressed to the contract seal until it finally swallowed him whole; the sweetest, most heavenly release at the hands of one most unhallowed. Violently ecstatic, all-consuming, perfect. It ravished his senses, filled him with radiating warmth and stole away his breath. It rose, stormed, crested – and then it ebbed slowly off, melting from his numb limbs, taking on its way his consciousness with it. It flushed his cheeks a brilliant pink and left a moist shimmer of perspiration across his pearly, youthful skin. It left him sprawled boneless on the sheets, blissed-out and exhausted.

When soon he came to his feeble senses, Sebastian was sitting beside him on the edge of the bed, soaked in the silver moonlight seeping through the uncurtained windows. He was smiling and petting his tousled hair – up and then slowly, softly down. Ciel fixed him with a glassy, unfocused gaze of mismatched eyes, one crystal blue and one glimmering violet in the dark, little teardrops hanging unshed like morning dew over the long, dense fan of his lashes. And Sebastian looked down at him, too, in a way Ciel could not translate, with something wholly foreign. If Ciel didn't know any better, he would say that he looked at him with love, with care. But he gave it no further thought; tonight he had so few to spare, and he would not see them wasted on anything so absurd.

“Do you want to know what Poe's story was about, young master?” Sebastian quietly asked, knitting his fingers through the boy's hair.

“Mmn?”

“In the land of chaos, a demon meets a human. And in spite of surrounding chaos, all the human does is sit quietly on a rock. The demon, thus intrigued, tries all he can to perturb the lone mortal's bizarre calm; he sows more chaos, summons more terror...”

Ciel's eyelids grew heavier and heavier. He lay there, hearing but not listening, lulled by the familiar sound of Sebastian's tranquil, velvety voice.

“...then, finally, infuriated with the human's resolve, the demon makes everything fall quiet. Just like that, all at once. And for the first time, the human stirs in horror, for it is not chaos that he truly fears; it is stillness, silence, solitude. The human is used to chaos; to war, desolation, calamity and death. Humans, as a whole, tend to veer toward unrest, and to create it is their nature. Some just cannot stay put, you see,” the demon smiled, leaning closely in. “I think you are like that, too. Maybe just a little bit, maybe a lot,” he whispered, brushing aside strands of sweat-damp hair from the boy's forehead, away from his closing eyes. He pressed a light kiss to the top of his head and murmured, smile darkening, only for himself to hear:

“But don't worry, my dear little master; there is no rest for the wicked. You shall nevermore know peace.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Nemo me impune lacessit_ – No one can harm me unpunished  
>  As for the Amontillado that Ciel drinks – obviously I had no idea what brand of sherry was popular / expensive in Victorian England, so I just mashed together some words that seemed relevant XD
> 
> *sighs* This chapter turned out a lot different than what I'd pictured in my head, but I really hope you enjoyed it anyway! *begs for feedback*  
>  ~~oh, and I'd been planning to do proper smut or something but failed miserably, gomenasai~~
> 
> Thanks a bunch for reading <3


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